Fire is the only verb here, and it arrives like a drumbeat. The poem opens with a quiet admission: the fires "we thought far off" are now close. From there, each line repeats "burn" and widens the damage, moving from high places to the water, from poor people's houses to wings, stones, creatures, and the materials of industry like tar and oil. Even art and bards go up, which suggests that culture offers no protection either.
The speaker sounds stunned and grieving more than angry. There's no argument, just a list that keeps growing, and the repetition makes the destruction feel relentless. The mood is bleak and urgent. The last lines turn the poem's sharpest point: we burn even "the moon we move to," the place we imagined as safe. Judging by the imagery, the poem seems to point toward large-scale disaster, perhaps ecological, and the final image suggests that escaping elsewhere is a false comfort.